


Iceman

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blushing, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill: Mycroft at a conference with Lestrade, and Greg feeling him up under the table, and this causes Mycroft to blush bright scarlet. Swiftly followed by frantic semi-public sex in which they keep shushing each other and Greg puts his hand over Mycroft's mouth right at the end because he knows Mycroft is loud when he comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iceman

Greg is bored.

At first, the idea of joining Mycroft at a convention to discuss changes in law enforcement legislation seemed like a good idea. A chance to get out of town, a nice hotel room, a topic he’s actually interested in, and all of it a legitimate business expense. Usually he hates it when Mycroft leaves town for one of his week-long meetings. Although Mycroft always assures him they are impossibly dull and he’s really not missing anything, Greg always suspected this is just Mycroft’s way of making him feel better. As it turns out, Mycroft was right. It is impossibly dull.

Someone is droning about allocation of funds for resources. Greg knows the man was introduced, not even twenty minutes ago, but he’s been introduced to about fifty people today and most of their names flew right out of his head within minutes of meeting them. Mycroft, he’s sure, remembers them all. Even now Mycroft is sitting attentively at his right, expensive fountain pen in hand, taking the occasional note. Not that he needs notes, as far as Greg can tell Mycroft never forgets anything. He looks perfectly poised, back straight, tie snug against his throat, bespoke suit lying smoothly over his shoulders.

Greg sighs and props his chin in one hand. He pokes idly at his notepad. So far he has accumulated a doodle of the speaker wearing a lampshade on his head, a reminder to himself to bring more coffee to the next meeting, and a pattern of overlapping squares that kept him occupied for a good five minutes. He looks around the table, but everyone else seems focused and intent. Nobody is even looking in his direction. Greg slides his gaze sideways, gauging Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. He presses his lips together to hide a smile.

Then he puts his hand on Mycroft’s knee, squeezes gently, and runs it up his leg to the top of his thigh. Mycroft makes the tiniest twitch. His focus stays on the speaker, and his face shows nothing but polite interest. He keeps both hands on the table.

Greg glances around the room, and schools his expression. He curls his fingers, pressing along Mycroft’s inseam, teasing at his inner thigh. His fingertips trace small circles there, hovering on that edge between stroking and tickling. He can feel how warm Mycroft is, this little pocket of heat trapped between his legs, and if he stretches just a little, Greg can feel the bunched material of his trouser fly. Beneath that, the familiar smooth bulge of Mycroft’s cock, tucked neatly into his pants, and no doubt to the right, as always.

Mycroft swallows, his throat making a dry click. The pinky of his left hand taps on the table; besides that, he is completely still. Greg lets his palm rest directly on top of Mycroft’s cock, just the weight of his hand. He keeps it still, allows Mycroft to become accustomed to the touch, to relax a little. Then he squeezes, gently, cupping Mycroft in his palm and applying light pressure to the length of him through his trousers. A muscle in Mycroft’s jaw twitches. 

Greg begins a slow rub with his thumb, up and down. He keeps his fingers curled, and he can feel Mycroft growing harder in his hand. He keeps up the persistent stroke, caressing around the head of Mycroft’s cock, pressing with his fingertips, squeezing a little. Mycroft taps the table again. He has stopped taking notes. He’s hard enough now that his trousers must be uncomfortably tight, that it must be difficult keeping his legs primly together, but he doesn’t move.

At the head of the room, the man talking about budgeting gives way to another talking about human resources. Greg nods along with everyone in the room as the man makes some kind of point. He has no idea what’s been said. Everyone seems determined to outdo each other with dedication and focus, and the room is silent but for the man speaking. Nobody so much as shuffles their feet or clears their throat. Beside him, Mycroft’s breathing is just barely audible.

Slowly, carefully, Greg eases the tips of his fingers up until he feels the end of Mycroft’s zipper. Then he slides it down, a little at a time. He catches a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye, and realizes Mycroft has just licked his lips. Greg bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a smirk. He gets his fingers inside the zip once it’s open, and then his hand, sneaking through the gap. He brings Mycroft into his fist again and strokes him through the thinner material of his pants. Mycroft exhales, his mouth slightly open. Greg can feel dampness at the tip, pre-come starting to soak into his pants. He rubs the ball of his thumb around the glans in slow circles, feeling the slide of foreskin over the firm flesh beneath.

The speaker says something that must be fairly important, because there is a sudden rustle around the room as everyone moves to write it down. Mycroft does the same, a line of notes in a shaky hand, bearing little resemblance to the neat and perfect handwriting above them on the page. He sets the pen down when he’s done, and laces his fingers tightly together. Greg can see white at the knuckles, can feel the quivering tension in Mycroft’s thighs. He squeezes a little tighter on the upstroke.

Mycroft finally allows his thighs to part, knees spreading slowly, silently. Greg angles his body so he can reach more without any visible movement of his arm. It’s all in the wrist; short, sure strokes. He dips his fingers low enough to trace them over Mycroft’s balls, lifting and rolling each one, hot and heavy in his hand. Mycroft makes a soft sound, a tiny little catch in his throat. The first hints of a flush appear high on his cheeks, pale pink. Greg wriggles his fingers, feeling around until he locates the gap in Mycroft’s pants, and then he slides in. Hot, damp skin under his hand, sleek and taut under the pads of his fingers. 

He lets his fingertips circle the head, rubbing the slick pre-come around. He touches Mycroft the same way he would during a blow-job, little laps with his fingers over the slit and beneath the head, firm pulls and strokes, relentless wet pressure. Mycroft’s chest is moving visibly as he breathes now, but silent, through his nose, controlled. Colour creeps up from beneath his collar, joining the patches already high on his cheekbones, suffusing his face with pink. Greg closes his hand around him and sets up a rhythm, rubbing the foreskin up and down. He lets his thumb swipe the tip every so often, just to keep him guessing. He gathers more of the steadily leaking pre-come with every stroke, easing his way, making it slippery.

Mycroft’s hips make tiny shifting motions, and his legs spread wider. His hands are resolutely still on the table, his expression calm and composed, but he can’t hide the bright flush on his skin. His eyes have gone dark and dilated, and he’s red from his neck to the tips of his ears. They’re at one corner of the table, so nobody else can see into Mycroft’s lap, but they can’t miss the blush. Someone two chairs down leans over, and pushes a pitcher of water in their direction. “All right?” he asks quietly. “You look a bit warm.”

Mycroft nods and smiles politely. “Yes, thank you,” he murmurs. Greg admires his control. His voice is perfectly level.

Greg strokes faster, tightens his hand, letting the friction drive Mycroft closer to the edge. Mycroft gives him a sidelong glance, the first time he’s actually looked at Greg since the meeting began. His face is unreadable. His hips rock into Greg’s hand, his cock hot and firm, coated thoroughly with pre-come. Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, and his lips part. Then he clenches his jaw and his expression goes blank again. Greg touches his balls again, teasing them, feeling them drawn snug and tight against his body. He flutters his fingers over Mycroft’s skin, easing the stimulation. His touch is light now, teasing, playful. Mycroft lets out a breath that might be relief and might be frustration.

He keeps it light for about ten minutes, enough for Mycroft to soften a little, for the deep red flush on his face to fade back to pink. Then Greg tightens his hand and rubs firmly. He presses his fingertips all along Mycroft’s length, and then lower, along the creases of his thighs, the sensitive fold of skin there. Then up again, little rubs over the head, sliding the foreskin back and forth. Mycroft makes another of those tiny, choked off sounds. His thighs are trembling, his hands knotted tightly together, and a fine sheen of sweat is beaded on his upper lip. He becomes fully hard again fast, and hectic blotches of deep red stain his cheeks. 

Greg works at him, takes him closer to coming, measuring by the quivering tension in his body and the barely audible rasp of his breathing. Then he backs off, giving him enough time to calm, a chance to breathe and focus, only to bring him back up. He manages to get through this cycle twice more before the current speaker finishes and calls for a break. Greg immediately withdraws his hand and zips up Mycroft’s fly, the general rustle of people gathering their notes covering the sound. Mycroft shifts his weight and takes a measured breath. He’s still cherry red, his fair skin showing the tint brightly. He tugs at his jacket as he stands and it covers the sizable bulge at his groin.

Mycroft leans close to him and pitches his voice low. “Greg, would you be so kind as to join me for a moment?”

“Why?” Greg asks, innocent. “Something you wanted to discuss?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. His voice has acquired a dangerous edge. “Something quite urgent.”

Greg presses his lips together to hide his grin. “Ah, well then, lead on.”

Mycroft cuts through the milling group effortlessly, taking them out of the conference room and down an empty hall. They turn two corners and then Mycroft opens a door and drags Greg through it. Greg glances around and gathers that they’re in some unused office, cardboard boxes piled haphazardly on top of a desk, three unplugged computer monitors stacked on a chair, and a fine layer of dust on everything. That’s all he gets before Mycroft shuts the door, pins him against the wall, and kisses him, biting greedily at his mouth. Mycroft is already breathing hard, and his skin is hot, baking where their faces press together.

“Can’t believe you,” Mycroft mutters between kisses. “Absolute madman, do you have any idea, thought I was going to…” He gasps and his hips stutter as Greg pulls them into contact. Mycroft rubs up at him, thrusting against his belly. He moans and clutches at Greg’s shoulders. He pants for breath against Greg’s mouth.

Greg gets a hand between them and squeezes Mycroft through his trousers. Mycroft shudders and groans loudly, and Greg kisses him to muffle the sound. “Shh,” Greg says, and sucks his bottom lip.

Mycroft gives him an incredulous look. He’s damp with sweat now, his hair curling slightly on his forehead, red-faced and wide-eyed. “After that frankly _superhuman_ display of self-control,” he says, “do not tell me to _shush_.”

Greg laughs and rubs him, and Mycroft’s eyes roll back. He jerks his hips, one arm slung around Greg’s shoulders, the other planted against the wall behind him. He mouths Greg’s neck, bites at him, sucks a hot mark just below his collar. Then his clever hands are sliding between them, pulling Greg out of his trousers, giving him a long, sweet stroke. Greg yelps and bangs his head back against the wall.

“Shh,” Mycroft says, maliciously.

“Smartarse,” Greg replies, and then whines as Mycroft begins to stroke him. He’s been half-hard for ages, just from the feeling of Mycroft under his hand, from watching him struggle to be quiet and still as Greg brought him repeatedly to the edge. “Let me,” Greg says, “Let me, I want,” and he pulls at Mycroft’s trousers.

Their hands push and bump, fingers tangling together, and then Greg has both their cocks lined up and he wraps his hand around them and Mycroft does the same. Mycroft has his face buried in Greg’s shoulder now, his breath a hot, damp circle through the material of his jacket. He’s shaking, clutching at Greg, letting out muffled moans against his chest.

Greg twists his hand just right, finally allowed to move properly, to stroke Mycroft the way he wants to. Mycroft sways as his knees threaten to buckle and Greg gets his other arm around his waist, propping them both up against the wall. He rubs his thumb firmly on the slick skin just below the head and Mycroft gives a wordless shout.

“No, no, shhh, really,” Greg says in a breathless whisper.

“I, oh,” Mycroft mumbles, “I’m trying, oh god, like that, you’re driving me _mad_.”

“How’d you do it?” Greg asks, between kisses to Mycroft’s throat. “How’d you stay so quiet and still? I would have been begging for it.”

“Wanted to,” Mycroft pants. “Nearly, oh, oh please…”

“Yeah,” Greg says, stroking them faster. Mycroft shoves his cock up against Greg’s in ragged, shuddery little thrusts, and then Greg slides around him, standing behind him with an arm around Mycroft’s waist. He curls his free hand around Mycroft and gives him a slick circle of fingers to thrust against. Mycroft leans forward, plants one hand against the wall, the other covering Greg’s on his waist.

Greg mouths the hot skin of his neck, nibbles the bright red tip of his ear, licks the spot behind that never fails to make Mycroft shiver and moan. Mycroft draws in a fast breath, and Greg moves his hand up fast, clamping it over Mycroft’s mouth. He cries out as he starts to come, the sound muffled behind Greg’s hand, come shooting in spurts on the wall. Mycroft twitches in his palm, shaking with aftershocks, sucking lazily at Greg’s fingers.

Finally, he sags and lets out a long, broken exhale. He presses a kiss to Greg’s palm, and Greg drops his hand. Mycroft turns and gives him a predatory grin. Then he pushes Greg, steering him backward until he runs into the desk. Greg winds up perched on the edge of the desk, and Mycroft drops to his knees in front of him.

Greg tilts his head back and bites down on a moan as Mycroft slips his mouth over his cock. Mycroft is eager, licking at him, giving long, firm sucks, his head bobbing up and down. Greg props himself up with one hand and puts the other in Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft hums, encouraging, and rubs the flat of his tongue against the sensitive glans.

“Jesus, My,” Greg says roughly. “The way you look.”

Mycroft pulls off long enough to grin up at him, positively debauched. His hair is mussed and sweaty, skin still pink, eyes dark and glittering in the dim light. His mouth is wet, lips swollen with kisses, spit shining on his chin. His cock is still hanging out of his trousers, half-hard, his knees spread wide on the floor. Then he pulls Greg back into his mouth and sets about deliberately taking him apart.

Greg presses his hand over his mouth and bites on the side of his palm, then sucks on his fingers, tasting salt and the sharp tang of pre-come. He realizes that it’s Mycroft, he’s tasting Mycroft on his hand, he’s probably coated all the way to the wrist from that long hand-job under the table, and then Mycroft takes him deep and swallows around him and Greg gives a sharp, choked cry and comes. He thrusts forward until his hips slide off the desk and he winds up in a controlled tumble to the floor, Mycroft moving with him, still drinking him down.

When he’s got every drop, Mycroft sprawls next to him on the carpet. Greg’s got his arm over his eyes, the cool sleeve a relief on his hot skin. Mycroft wriggles closer and curls against his side. His head rests on Greg’s shoulder, and Greg turns to give him a kiss, lazy and sweet.

“I sincerely hope you got that out of your system,” Mycroft says after a while. “I won’t survive if you do that for the rest of the week.”

Greg shrugs, and one corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk. “I was bored.”

Mycroft chuckles. “Then I shall attempt to keep you entertained.”

Greg kisses him again and thinks that the convention may turn out to be fun after all.

*


End file.
